


As Sparks Fly Upward

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU RPF, Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Dubious Morality, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second person Father Misha priest!kink wherein "your" bad behavior leads to a relationship.  His first time for everything and possibly a little dubious on his consent in the beginning. Mostly porn, though there is plot to be had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not Catholic. Although I've done a lot of research in writing this, there may be aspects that are incorrect. I've also taken a lot of creative license - particularly with the Mass. There is a great deal of misappropriation of Bible verses and prayers to my own ends and other blasphemy to be had as well as plenty of religious guilt and angst, but hopefully it's worth it.

Those who see you entering the church every evening like clockwork would assume you're devout. Your parents are overjoyed that you've found your faith again and started going to church and being the good Catholic girl they raised you to be. If anyone knew the truth about why you come to confess every day, you'd probably die of shame. You just can't help yourself, you've been drawn to Father Misha since your mother guilted you into joining her for Mass two months ago.

He's tall and slender, with startling blue eyes and a penchant for standing closer than a priest should probably stand. His hair is always messy and he never really shaves as well as he should. The juxtaposition of the starched white collar and his darker skin is the icing on the cake. It's more than physical attraction, though. There's an intelligence behind his eyes, an inquisitiveness that you've never seen in a priest before. He seems so open and warm and thoughtful.

Then there's his voice. In your more rational moments you're able to push it out of your mind and refuse to think about his the roughness of his voice that always seems to be wrapped in silk somehow, the way it floated through the air that Sunday and wrapped around you; or about how much softer it seemed when your parents took you to greet him afterward. Because down that path lies the madness of the warmth of his big palms wrapped around your hand when he invited you back into the fold and the smile that accompanied it. You were struck dumb, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl standing in front of her crush while he inquired with genuine interest about your life.

As you settle into the confessional, the door closes with a click and it sends a charge of anticipation through you that shortens your breath. You turn to sit on the uncomfortable wooden bench, drawing your loosely gathered skirt up over your thighs. You try to get control of yourself, steady your breathing and your nerves. The thrill of how fucked up and wrong this is feels like the flush of alcohol to your mind.

When the partition slides open, you smell the familiar scent of incense and hear the voice you've waited all day to hear, warm and at ease.

"My child."

Your hand trembles as you cross yourself and you try to will your voice not to shake or crack, but you're only marginally successful when you start with a breathy, "Bless me Father, I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession."

The creak of wood tells you that he has shifted on the opposite bench. He clears his throat softly and his tone is hard to read.

"You are blessed, for God is with you."

You stroke your inner thighs, moving slowly, trying to be quiet. You're so lost in the moment that it takes a prompt from him to bring you back on task. His voice sounds hoarse when, after a moment, he continues.

"What is the nature of your sins?"

"I.. These.. are.." you stutter, then try to gather yourself. You swallow hard, one hand moving to settle over your mound, pressing hard against the soaked fabric of your panties, rubbing circles with rough fingertips.

"These are my sins. I've willfully entertained impure thoughts, Father. I've masturbated and I've set out to seduce someone."

It's difficult to think past the blood rushing in your ears, the way your body twitches when you hear his breath hitch. Your earthy scent mingles with the incense in the air, an intoxicating mixture. You are certain he smells it, too, and the nervous clearing of his throat and another creak of wood with his shifting body makes you rub that much harder, drag the nails of your free hand over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He's waiting for you to continue and you can hear that his breathing is shallow and tightly controlled, something that's been happening for the last week of confessions.

He doesn't prompt you again immediately. He sits in silence while you touch yourself and you close your eyes, think about his smile and his eyes and the way he licks his lips so much and what better uses you could put that tongue to. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds closer to the grate.

"Have you anything else to confess?"

Your thighs are obscenely wide, your skirt hiked up around your hips. There've been other sins, sure, but they're hardly pressing at the moment. As you struggle to keep your thoughts going in a single direction, you decide that now is the best time to end this. You've not come in the confessional box and you don't intend to start today. You should feel embarrassed, mortified even, that your conclusion comes out almost as a moan.

"For these and all my sins, I am sorry."

Lying is, of course, a sin, too. Somehow you're pretty sure it doesn't rank as high as masturbation while confessing or attempting to seduce a priest. It is another long moment before he speaks. You're once more stroking your thighs lazily, slouched with your eyes closed. These silences have become longer and somehow you've come to crave his silence as much as his voice.

"Go and reflect on the Song of Songs. Pay special heed to chapter five, verse nine through chapter six, verse three. Pray to God for guidance after you have done so. You must make amends with the man you've set out to seduce." He'd been doing well to that point, but his voice cracks over the last word and he draws a sharp breath. You do, too.

You're relieved when he doesn't ask you to pray Contrition and instead absolves you of your sins. His voice grows more steady and sure as he falls back into the trappings of the confession ritual, offering pardon and peace. You sit for a moment, feeling dazed and focused on the rough roll of his words off what you know are full lips, picturing how often he must be licking them. Then you realize it's your turn to speak, it comes out sighed.

"Amen."

You get up quickly and pull your skirt down, exiting the confessional before Father Misha can finish. The door slams shut behind you in your haste. You feel as though you will explode if you don't come soon, so you look around. There is no one here except you and the good Father, so you pause to grab one of the Bibles off the table by the door and head into the ladies room.

" _I'm going straight to hell_ " alternates with " _it couldn't be more worth it_ " in your head as you flip impatiently through the book you've put at the back of the marble counter you're leaned against. It's late and you aren't expecting anyone to come in since you've not seen another person in all the weeks you've been attending these daily confessions, so you push your panties down to your knees and flip your skirt up over your back, twisting it until it won't be in the way.

You've been doing this for weeks, too; masturbating while you do acts of penance, though you've always waited until you got home before. For the first time in your life, you feel as though you're getting something out of them. When you reach Song of Songs, you scan through until you reach chapter five. While skimming, you slide your fingers through the slick juices of your cunt. Even your thighs are damp from the brush of your wet panties and it's not at all difficult to bury two fingers. You wriggle them idly, teasing yourself.

"How does your lover differ from any other,  
O most beautiful among women?  
How does your lover differ from any other,  
that you adjure us so?" 

  
This is not what you were expecting, but it has your interest. You slide a third finger in as you start to read aloud, twisting and stroking and letting your thumb rub over your clit from time to time.

"My lover is radiant and ruddy;  
he stands out among thousands.

His head is pure gold;  
his locks are palm fronds,  
black as the raven."

  
The room is hot and it's hard to breathe, you're hyper focused on these words, trying to imagine them in his voice as you grind against your hand, wishing you'd pushed your panties all the way off so you could spread yourself better, touch more of yourself. You continue in a whisper.

"His eyes are like doves  
beside running waters,  
His teeth would seem bathed in milk,  
and are set like jewels. 

His cheeks are like beds of spice  
with ripening aromatic herbs.  
His lips are red blossoms;  
they drip choice myrrh." 

  
You swallow, panting for a moment and rest your head to the counter. You press your fingers into yourself and hold them there, feeling your muscles squeezed tight around them, right on edge again. You want to make this last, though, so you take this moment to calm yourself. When you finally feel as though you can go on, you find your place.

"His arms are rods of gold  
adorned with chrysolites.  
His body is a work of ivory  
covered with sapphires.

His legs are columns of marble  
resting on - "

  
You didn't hear the door open or his breath catch at you on display. He's quieter than you could ever have imagined. The first indication you have that he has entered the room is the the blur of black moving in the mirror. His cheeks are dark pink and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. You see him take a tight breath, his eyes on yours in the mirror, pinning you in place. His voice washes over you, low and rough.

_"- golden bases."_

He's moving closer and a shiver of pure lust goes through you, your voice is husky and choked, but missing the appropriate embarrassment.

"Father.."

When he is right next to you, he settles one hand on the small of your back, warm and heavy pressure that makes you tense, slick walls quivering around your fingers all over again as you moan. He pulls the Bible closer to him, his free hand right beside your cheek so that all you can focus on is the easy slide of his fingertips over the lines on the page. He slides his hand down over your bare ass as he continues the Song for you.

"His mouth is sweetness itself;  
he is all delight.  
Such is my lover, and such is my friend,  
O daughters of Jerusalem." 

  
He leans closer, resting his elbow to the countertop beside you as his fingers brush your inner thigh, move to cover the hand that's slick with your wetness and pull your fingers away. His eyes are wide and almost pure pupil-black as he licks his lips and slides his thumb into you. This close, he can whisper while he watches your face.

"Where has your lover gone,  
O most beautiful among women?  
Where has your lover gone  
that we may seek him with you?" 

  
He fucks his thumb in and out of you, long fingers wrapping around to rub on either side of your clit, light pressure that's almost unbearable. He's so close you can see each eyelash when he blinks slowly, smell the incense and musk and hint of sweat and wood polish on him, feel his breath when he continues his recitation from memory.

"My lover has come down to his garden,  
to the beds of spice,  
to browse the garden  
and to gather the lilies." 

  
His fingers are clumsy as he rubs harder, so hard it almost hurts, and it's probably an accident that he's pushing his thumb just as hard against the rough spot inside of you. His hand is tight, like a vise, pushing the heat through you that's been building since you masturbated last night. You've discovered that getting off only helps briefly before you start thinking about him again and.. and..

..it's the last words that make you come apart. Or maybe it's the slide of his rough cheek against yours or his breath on your ear or the slight brush of his lips or, no, it's definitely the words.

"My lover belongs to me and I to him;  
he browses among the lilies." 

  
The kiss he presses to your ear is so chaste, so soft that need explodes through you like a bomb, greying your vision and leaving you writhing as he strokes inexpertly at your cunt. You can't help murmuring a whimper as you shake, words you mean.

"I'm sorry, Father."

He soothes you with gentle, " _shhhh_ " and his other hand on your cheek, pulling you against the soft cotton of his shirt, his stubbled chin scraping your temple as you come harder than you can ever remember, moaning and gasping for air and feeling cold to the ends of you and whispering " _sorry, sorry, sorry_ ".

"Hush, child."

When the strongest waves have passed and leave you feeling like you're made of noodles, squirming against the pleasantly cool countertop and his warm body, he pulls his hand away. He's gentle in pulling your panties back up around your hips, takes his time and lets his touch linger over your skin. You want to kiss him, but you feel that would be somehow inappropriate. The thought is ludicrous after what you've just done and it makes you laugh nervously. He pulls away to give you a quizzical look and faint smile.

You decide that explaining would be too much, so you just lay your cheek back down on the marble of the countertop and look at him while he settles your skirt down where it belongs and rubs your back soothingly. His eyes are bright with something you never expected to see there, his cheeks still pink, his lips looking bitten. His body is soft and comfortable against yours and you close your eyes.

When you have almost caught your breath and have stopped shaking, you feel him straightening up beside you and reaching up to brush your hair back out of your face. He murmurs another absolution, sounding utterly sincere, to ask God to pardon your sins. He adds even more softly, " _go in peace,_ " to finish the interrupted ritual from the confessional box.

You don't move, unsure of what you should say or do or think and suddenly feeling shy and still much more turned on than you should. He's slow in pulling the Bible away from where it's halfway under your head and you hear it shut firmly, a reassuring sound. He's obviously going to leave you here like this and that twists your insides up in all the best, and worst, ways.

Before he turns to go, he asks in a tone that's once more inscrutable..

"Should I expect you for confession tomorrow evening?"

********************

You know Father Misha locks the church doors at nine p.m. sharp, so you wait until a moment before to enter. You're clutching your rosary more tightly than you have since you were a child, whispering a fervent Act of Contrition.

_"Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins;_  
 _the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul,_  
 _the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins;_  
 _the sins I know, the sins I do not know; the sins I have concealed_  
 _for so long, and which are now hidden from my memory."_  


This is the fourth time today you've tried this, the fourth time you've tripped right there. Next comes the actual contrition, the part where you have to swear you're truly sorry for those sins and for the life of you, you can't. You feel shamed to your very core, mortified by your thoughts, even more so by your actions. Not sorry, though. You're so far from sorry that you're back here again tonight.

Father Misha is out of the confessional box and walking up the center aisle when he sees you. His long, rolling strides falter and his body language closes up. When you see his hands ball into fists at his sides, your mind goes straight to the way he touched you while he recited Biblical pornography from memory, your tongue flicks out over your lower lip in reflex. He stops a safe-distance-for-both-your-souls away and watches you warily. You notice, not for the first time, the way his black slacks and button-down shirt hug his narrow frame, the way his linen collar looks almost chokingly tight.

"I need to lock up. I will be available for _confession_ at the normal time tomorrow."

His tone is clipped, as guarded as the tightness in his body suggests he feels. It would've stung less if he'd slapped you, his words making you take a step back. You don't know what you were expecting, really, but firm resolve to keep you away - both physically and otherwise - was definitely not it. Your belly dips with heat because it's clear you weren't the only one impacted by your last meeting, It only adds to your growing sense of shame, continuing a vicious cycle.

"Father, I.. " Guilt twists like a knife in your gut, bracing and almost painful. You squeeze tighter around the crucifix on your rosary and force yourself to continue, "I have to talk to you. I fear for my soul."  


_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen._

He closes his eyes, shutting you out and you see his lips moving on what could only be a prayer. Your mouth is dry and your palms are not and as the silence stretches on, you feel more and more certain that you're going to throw up. When his shoulders slump and he covers his face with his hands, you turn slowly away. How fucked up must you be if your priest refuses a request for spiritual guidance? You had ulterior motives, sure, but it wasn't a lie. The lump in your throat is huge and growing and the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes is almost unbearable.

"Wait."

Though his voice is softer, it's still guarded. You stop and stare at the floor with your back to him, you can't bring yourself to turn around. The gentle, unexpected pressure of his hand on your shoulder and the warmth that flows off his body make you shiver.

"Let me lock the doors and we'll talk."

He squeezes your shoulder then brushes past you, leaving the reassuring scent of incense in his wake. You try to force yourself to breathe slowly, try to steady your jangled nerves. You didn't plan anything further than coming here tonight to fuck him and you're unsure how to proceed. You try to tell yourself it's a bad idea and you should just leave now, go home, hit your knees and pray that neither of you burns in Hell.

You're still torn between staying and running when you hear his light footsteps on the hard wood floor. He's not as close as he used to stand, but he's closer than before, so you think that's progress. Progress to what, you couldn't say.

"Did you want.. " The bravado he'd found before cracks when you finally look up at him. His eyes go wide, he smoothes the already smooth front of his shirt. Your gaze drops to his hands when he starts to nervously adjust his cuffs around slender wrists. His voice is cautious, sliding lower when he rephrases, "Am I taking your confession?"

His eyes narrow when you choke on a strangled laugh. It shouldn't be funny. It really shouldn't and you know that. It is funny, though, that he's trying to preserve anyone's anonymity under the circumstances. You force the little smile off your face and look him in the eye before you respond.

"I think we're both well aware of my sins, Father."

His cheeks color and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck as he looks away to focus on one of the stained glass pieces that ring the nave. The familiar sound of him clearing his throat comes just before he nods, looking as guilty as you feel. Far from making you feel less alone, you feel guiltier for being the cause of his guilt. He steps back and turns his body, gesturing with one hand up the aisle.

"We can talk in my office if you'd like."

As you walk together up the aisle and through a long hallway, neither of you says a word. You feel an electric charge between your bodies, but for all you know it may be wishful thinking. He is careful not to touch you, not even an innocent brush of his shoulder against yours. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and notice that the pink stain has not left his cheeks and he is alternately licking and biting his lips, then reaching up to rub away the spit; you realize that nervous habit must be why his lips are always dry and cracked.

When you reach his office, he lets you in and walks in behind you. You'd been expecting a modern office, but like everything else in the church, it's filled with old furniture, well-appointed and homey. You look around at the big wooden desk, the chess table between two arm chairs that looks like it's caught in the middle of a game. Father Misha gestures to a rather uncomfortable looking couch and waits for you to sit down before he joins you, sitting a chaste distance away with his knees turned toward yours. While you try to decide what to say and gather the courage to say it, he begins.

"You must understand that for both our sakes, what happened the last time you were here can never happen again. I was wrong. It was wrong. I was sorely tempted and I led you to temptation with me. For that, I am ashamed and more regretful than I can express."

He pauses, licks his lips then rubs over them with his fingertips. When he reaches out and puts one warm hand over yours, you look him in the eye again. You shouldn't notice the spit wetness of his fingers, but you do. You notice and you rub your thumb over the smooth beads of your rosary. He swallows hard and his voice seems to be just outside his conscious control as he continues.

"I thought.. I thought I was showing you the error of your ways. I.. I thought you'd see that.. see that your.. ah.. affections were misplaced in me. I am a servant of the Lord, but still a man. I.. you..

What I mean is, after I left you, I prayed. I tried.. tried to pray for g-.. for guidance."

He falls silent again. Sweat is beading at his temples and when he swallows again, you see the shine of the same on his throat. He pulls his hand away from you and reaches up to touch his collar. Like a child with a favorite blanket, it's something comforting to touch, a reminder that he's safe. He licks his lips and when he reaches up to rub them again, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist. He feels warm and delicate in your hand as you pull his fingers away from his mouth. He's trembling now, his chest moving tightly as though each breath is painful.

" _Please_."

His voice sounds broken, his resolve melting before both your eyes. He doesn't pull away from your grip, though. Instead, he looks down at your fingers wrapped pale on the black cuff of his shirt and his hand rested chastely over the skirt that covers your knee. His nostrils flare as his breath comes shorter, the pink on his cheeks darkens to a splotched near-red. When he looks back up at you, the blue of his eyes is tinged with the same bright heat you saw in the bathroom, his pupils are growing wider by the second, his whole body coiling.

"I prayed when I got home, too. Kneeling on the floor in my bedroom in soaked panties with the smell of your incense and candles clinging to my shirt and the sound of your voice ringing in my ears, I prayed like I haven't in _years_."

He gasps a breath like a fish yanked from the water, his hand fisting in the fabric of your skirt, then releasing reflexively as though it burns him. He looks terrified and aroused and a hundred other things you can't pinpoint, all of it pulling tight in his face, drawing his lips into a thin line and creasing his forehead as he tries to breathe properly.

"Do you know what God said to me, Father?"

The shake of his head is nearly imperceptible. His eyes are wide on yours again and he's given up breathing at all. When you start to lean closer, he doesn't move away. This is so wrong in so many ways and you should stop and beg his forgiveness and you know that's not going to happen.  


_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen._

"Nothing."

His body jerks and you release his wrist. You move in, predatory with your hands on his chest to push him back against the arm of the couch. He's panting but he lets you push him without a struggle. You end up with your knee between his thighs, your loose skirt riding up; you can feel the press of his hard cock on your leg. The pressure makes the words spill out of him in a tangled tumble.

"I c- I _can't_. I'm a.. I'm.. a serv- I am a servant of the Lord. I'm not allo- not allowed.. not.. I've taken a _vow_ of.."

When you start to unbutton his shirt, his hands settle on your hips, fingers bruising tight as you release the linen of his collar, bare the thin white t-shirt beneath his black frock. His hips jerk up and he closes his eyes. When you untuck his undershirt and push your hands up his sweaty stomach, he shivers and moans softly from deep in his chest. You're finding it harder and harder to breathe as his body responds to your touch in all the ways you'd ever hoped it would.

"I tried. I tried to.. to pray. I tried to ask.. ask G-"

He groans and twists when you bend to lick the sweat off his neck, the sound is guttural, animalistic. The scrape of his stubble on your face makes you moan in response and you grind your wet cunt against his thigh. His strong hands, with their long and slender fingers guide your hips. You aren't wearing panties tonight, know he can feel your wetness through the thin fabric of his pants. His voice in your ear wrecked, shot through with things that should never touch a priest's voice. He's pleading with someone. You, God, himself.

"All I could smell was _you_. I couldn't.. couldn't concen- I.. I _tried_ to.. I _wanted_ to.."

You can't stand it anymore. You drag your nails down his stomach and he's writhing while you nip and suck at his earlobe and slide your cheek against his as you straighten up. _What's another coal on the fire of Hell_ , you think as you fumble frantically with the button and zipper of his slacks. His squirming doesn't help anything, but, to be fair, neither does the way you're rutting against his thigh like a cat in heat.

"I tried to.. to pray. I.. all.. all I could think about. _All_ I could.. the.. your.. so _wet_ , so tight and _warm_ and.. all.. I couldn't. The smell of your v-.. your pu-.. your pussy on my hand was..

When you didn't.. didn't come for.. _nghhnnn_.. when you didn't confess last night I thou- I thought you.. you were.. it was.. but tonight.. and.."

He lifts his hips when you pull at the waistband of his slacks and underwear and you drag them down, leaving his cock standing thick and long and leaking pre-come on his stomach. His muscles are tight and his eyes are wild when you wrap your fingers around the base of him. You aren't in the right state to tease and make this last. You have to feel him inside of you, have to feel it now. It's a need more pressing than you've ever known.

"This is wro-.. wron-.. so _wrong_ ," he whimpers.

"I know," you whisper, teasing the head of his cock against the slickness of your slit.

"I can't.. can't do.. I _can't_.. do.. this," he groans, even as he's thrusting his hips up to bury himself in you.

"Oh, _fuck_. Yes, godyesfuck." That's you.

"Ah.. ah, ah, _ohhhhh_." That's him.

Your rosary clatters to the hardwood floor as his ass settles back onto the couch. The angle is awkward, but you make it work. Your hands tighten to fists in his undershirt, steadying yourself as you start to ride him. He's moaning and caught between closing his eyes tight to shut everything out and watching your face with fascination. He whimpers his pleasure and touches your thighs so gently, feeling the outline of your muscles as you work, sliding his cock in and out of your cunt fast and deep and as hard as you can. His hands return to your hips, pushing your skirt up and he watches the slide of his flesh into yours, eyes half-lidded and soft mewling moans breaking from those rough lips.

You moan your pleasure, rolling your hips to push him deeper. His cock is thick and curved just so and it feels better than you could've imagined to be so full of him. You watch his face as you ride him, squeeze your muscles tight around his cock to feel the ridge of his cockhead dragging against your slick walls. His hips buck when you do it, pushing him deeper still as he whispers "beautiful" and "oh, ah" and "yesyesyes" over and over.

"Touch me," you beg in a whimper, gasping for air as the pleasure builds at the base of your spine, "please, Father.. Misha.. _touch_ me."

He looks up, startled, catches his lip between his teeth in that way that makes his nostrils flare and his eyes narrow with concentration. Your rhythm is going erratic already, but when he moves one hand to slide his thumb over your clit, you lose all sense of rhythm. He's pushing too hard, pinching the nerves against the bone behind, long fingers still wrapped over your thigh. He stops breathing again when he feels the way it causes your cunt to clench down tighter around him and he's trembling as hard as you are.

The almost-pain of his clumsy touch makes you slam down against him in a way that jars up your spine and pushes rough-voiced moans from him. You know he won't last long, so you finally settle to rut and rub and grind his cock into you while he presses and rubs against your clit.

You come with a cry that hurts your throat, dropping your chin to your chest and watching him while you grind your hips in an obscene figure-eight. You can feel the warmth explode from your stomach like a fuzzy winter blanket through you that leaves you tingling and moaning nonsense. His eyes are wider and wider as he feels what orgasm does to your body, he twists and tries to fuck up into you, his pace frantic as his fingers tighten painfully on your hips again to try to pull you up.

You're sore and overstimulated and it's exquisite the way he fucks you too hard in blind need, whimpering and moaning and trying to say something that's getting lost in a hoarse, throaty growl. It's beautiful, the way his messy hair is sticking to his forehead and neck he's panting while you watch the muscles in his pale stomach twitch and ripple, watch his chest heave.

You're right. He doesn't last long. With a final, brutal thrust, you feel his cock stiffen and twitch and hot come inside you accompanied by a wanton arch of his body, thrusting his bare stomach up for you to drag your nails over. He bites his lip on a cry of pleasure and his body quivers as he comes and comes, cock jerking and pulsing as you scratch lightly at the rolling muscles. You wriggle your hips and make him growl again, milking him.

It's hot in the office, filled with the scent of sex and sin and the sound of you both breathing hard and the crackle of the fire across the room. You're spent, loose limbed, and want nothing more than to lie down with Father Misha. It only seems right since you've _lain_ with him. You hazard a glance at his face. His brow is knit in thought and he's looking at the fall of your skirt, half covering your union now. You decide he doesn't look like he hates you and let yourself fall forward onto his body. He shifts under you, gasps as his softening cock slips from you with a warm flood of come and wetness.

His movement stretches him out on the couch, using the low arm as a pillow. Your head is resting on his shoulder, his thick linen collar is rubbing roughly between your forehead and his neck. He reaches up to push it aside then slides his hand soothingly up and down your back. With his other hand, he straightens your skirt as best as he can with the positioning, rubs lightly over the curve of your ass.

You don't know what to say, again. The heat of the moment passed, you feel the shame welling up in your gut again and you kind of want to cry. You can blame the unevenness of your breath on physical exertion, but the burn at the bridge of your nose is something else entirely. Father Misha's heart is thumping under you, you can feel it against his breastbone. He's breathing hard, too, his hand moving to the nape of your neck to rub light circles. You're struggling for the right thing to say, giving up and closing your eyes, only to continue the struggle.

"I.. was a virgin when I entered seminary."

He sounds embarrassed and still aroused, his voice is raw with the unfamiliar use of his vocal cords, his fingers tightening on the back of your neck and the hand on your ass moving to the small of your back to press you tighter against his body.

"I'd never eve- " He clears his throat, tries again. "I've never kissed a girl."

That twists something warm inside you and you raise your head to look at him. His face is smooth, untroubled for the moment. He seems lost in thought. Your eyes settle on his mouth, rough lips red from being bitten. He shivers when you move your hand to cup his jaw, a gentle press of fingers over rough stubble. When you lean in, eyes fluttering closed again, you feel the breath of his question as much as you hear him.

"I.. what are you - "

You don't give him the chance to finish as your lips press against his. You're gentle at first, a light touch of skin, giving him the chance to back out if he wants to take it. He breathes a soft sigh through his nose and his lips soften, part slightly. As everything else you've done, his kiss is inexpert, so you take the lead. You push your tongue to tease lightly against the swell of his lip and he draws a sharp breath. It makes you smile that he doesn't even know you usually hold your breath for this.

You press on, touching the tip of your tongue to his as his hand moves to your shoulder, a rough grip. He opens to you, warm and willing as you map the contours of his mouth, flick your tongue over his teeth and the roof of his mouth. He finally gets in the game, pushing tentatively against your tongue as you stroke his cheek with gentle fingertips, slide your hand to pull him in. When he's more sure of himself, he moves his hands to frame your face, holding you still as his tongue pushes into your mouth to taste you all over again.

He moans softly and gets a little overzealous, bumping against your teeth before he pulls back. You nip at his tongue, drawing another moan and another bump of teeth. He's panting against your lips, hips straining up under you again instinctively. When you finally break off the kiss, biting his bottom lip and dragging your teeth, he's looking at you sort of dazed. His lips are wet, shiny with spit. He reaches to rub them, but you stop his hand, tell him softly, "No, leave it."

He nods, watches you. His eyes are warm and open to you and you're waiting for the shame and recrimination to enter them, but it never does. He just watches you, stroking your cheek with his thumb and smoothing your hair back out of your face. He licks his lips and shifts under you again and you realize that the couch, uncomfortable as it was to sit on, must be doubly so to lie on with someone on top of you.

"I should go."

You move to get up, but he's quick to move one hand to the small of your back, holding you and rubbing lightly. He looks and sounds genuinely puzzled.

"Why?"

You don't really want to stick around for the crippling guilt that will bring you to your knees any second. You can feel it scratching uncomfortably at the back of your mind, waiting to spring when you let your guard down. He's looking into your eyes, intense and sincere. He's so unguarded, so vulnerable in this moment with you. You: taker of his virginity, breaker of his vow of celibacy.

"I want.. I'd.. I'd like it if you stayed. For.. just for.. a.. just for a while."

His cheeks turn pink again as he stumbles over the request, suddenly looking much younger than he is. He bites his lips together then licks over them. He's reaching to rub the spit off, then stops himself and licks them again. He sounds more sure of himself as he continues.

"We can go to the rectory. It's much more comfortable. And if you haven't.. if you want to and you haven't.. I'm a great cook." He grins a crooked little grin, pushes your hair out of your face for the umpteenth time. "I'd like to cook you dinner. If you want me to."

You figure it would be rude to turn down an offer of late dinner. Especially since you came here tonight with the explicit intention of molesting a priest and followed through. You search his face for any trace of disgust or.. or, you don't know what.. anything you don't want to see there. He's smiling all the way to his eyes and it crinkles his nose in a cute way you'd never noticed before. You nod slowly as you reach for your rosary, figuring that his "in for a penny, in for a pound" mentality will serve you well and you may as well have a nice dinner to seal your entry to Hell.  


_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen._

"I'd like that, too, Father."

********************

Although the path to the rectory is completely within the confines of the locked church. Father Misha insists on buttoning his shirt and reseating his collar before leaving his office. When you laugh and tease him about the incongruity of caring about whether his collar is straight at this juncture, he bristles ever so slightly. You notice in the way he clears his throat and drops his eyes away, finishing his buttoning more quickly.

Within a moment of accepting his dinner invitation, you've begun a race within your own head against the shame of your actions. The walk to his living quarters does nothing to slow it down. The feel of his come cooling on your thighs makes your belly squirm and twist, makes it hard to focus on anything except the sway of his hips from the corner of your eye or the sound of your heart swishing in your ears. The most unsettling thing, however, is that he somehow ended up in possession of your rosary.

The short walk is uneventful and when you reach his rooms, you find yourself surprised again. His simple taste in furnishings has made the small spaces allotted him feel at once inviting and spacious. On the other hand, the presence of more crucifixes than could possibly truly be necessary is a bit of a turnoff, if you're counting such things. _I'm going to burn for all eternity_ , you tell yourself as you duck your head to keep from laughing at the thought.

High on the list of uncomfortable things you never thought you'd have to do in this lifetime is explaining to Father Misha why you'll be a few minutes in the bathroom. When his eyes widen and he reaches up to touch the blush returning his face, you make an instantaneous decision that the discomfort was completely worth it. He stammers an apology, looks vaguely confused about what he's apologizing for, then apologizes again before rubbing his forehead roughly. You have to bite your tongue to keep from telling him _exactly_ how endearing you find his awkwardness.

Safely alone, you take your time in cleaning yourself up. When you catch a glimpse of your disheveled hair and pinked cheeks in the mirror, you quickly look down. You definitely aren't ready to face yourself yet. When you've cleaned his come from your body, you put down the toilet lid and take a seat to gather your thoughts.  
 __

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  
It's amazing how quickly tears come when you stop moving for a second. You bury your face in your hands and allow yourself to cry. Maybe you can thank being Catholic for the physical sensation of guilt like waves of seasickness rolling through your body or maybe it's proof that you're not as irredeemably fucked up as you feel. You fold yourself in half, swallowing the rising taste of bile in the back of your throat, telling yourself over and over that you're not going to throw up.

You try to reason with your mind - he's a man like any other man, just one who wears a uniform. He was obviously willing, it's not like you forced him into anything. He wouldn't have invited you for dinner if it wasn't okay. It doesn't matter what you tell yourself, though, you keep circling back to the same conclusion: What you did was wrong, what you led him to do was unforgivable.

Gentle rapping on the bathroom door jerks you back from your thoughts.

"Is.. I.. are you okay?"

The concern in his voice makes you feel worse, if that's even possible. The Pavlovian arousal in your body from hearing his voice without seeing him eases the sting. You feel sick all over again as you swallow and try to force your voice into steadiness to answer. When you open your mouth to speak, nothing comes out. You stretch over and unlock the door, wiping your eyes with your shirt before you twist the knob.

He enters slowly. You feel his hesitation even as you stare at his stockinged feet, refusing to look up. He stops just inside the door and you can feel him looking at you with what you can only imagine is absolute disgust. You hold your breath, willing yourself not to start crying again. It works until he crosses the small room to you. He slips one hand into his pocket as he takes one of yours with his other. Tears start again when he presses the worn wooden rosary into your palm and closes your fingers over it.

You're certain you'd feel less wretched if he screamed at you to get out of his sight. He sits down cross-legged on the rug at your feet instead, putting himself right in your line of sight. The innocent openness of his expression and the way he bites his lips together as you see how carefully he's considering his next words is like a sucker punch. You close your eyes to get away from him, but when his warm hands close over yours, you cling as though to life itself.

"Would you like to talk?"

You shake your head. He squeezes your hands, reassuring.

"May I speak?"

He waits for an answer, rubbing his thumb idly over the back of your hand. You're not sure if you want to hear what he has to say, but you feel as though you owe him the chance to say it anyway. You open your eyes, staring through tears at your hands clasped within his. Finally, you summon your courage and nod. He clears his throat and begins haltingly.

"I.. This is.. It's.." When he pauses, you raise your eyes to his face. His head is tilted and one brow is arched as he stares at the tangle of your hands. He looks like his mind is a million miles away, his lips moving barely noticeably. Prayer? Rehearsed words? You try to swallow the lump that's in your throat, but it's too stubborn. He licks his lips slowly and looks up to meet your gaze, earnest blue eyes shining as he reaches to gently wipe the wetness from your cheeks. He returns his damp fingers to your grip before he goes on.

"This isn't easy. For either of us. We are.. human.. above all else. We are all flawed, imperfect. So very human. Aren't we? But we're both adults and I.. That is to say.. sometimes.. sometimes our human nature leads us to do things. It's.. Even with..

Even with the best intentions, we sin. I.. but.. maybe just because something is wrong in God's eyes doesn't make it.. completely _bad_."

He stops short, looking shocked by his own words. You squeeze his hands when he looks back down at the crucifix dangling from your fingers. You can see his pulse pounding in his throat over the top of his collar as he swallows hard. He shifts and licks his lips, pulls one hand away from yours to rub over them. This time, you don't stop him.

His hand moves to the security of his collar where he rubs a fingertip. You want to help him out, but you've no idea what to say that could make things right or even the tiniest bit better. "I'm sorry" seems laughably inadequate at the moment. You're beginning to think he has nothing else to say when he looks back up at you again. His eyes narrow briefly, crinkling his nose and it looks for all the world like he's fighting back tears of his own. His voice is gentle but surer as he drops his hands into his lap.

"I don't blame you. It isn't.. I have.." His cheeks flush and he licks his lips again, but he doesn't look away. "It isn't as though I've never thought about.. even.. even about it with you. Oh.."

You know you shouldn't smile at the strangled sound of embarrassment or the way he reaches up to cover his face, but you really can't stop it. He shakes his head, hiding from you, and takes a moment to compose himself. He clears his throat and pulls his hands away slowly, his gaze following them back into his lap before he chances another look up at you through long eyelashes. The smile he offers in return to yours is boyish and sweet and fades away slowly.

"I am the Lord's servant, but I _am_ only a man. I have desires like any other man. I have had. More times.." He looks down at your hands clasped on your knees and reaches up to straighten the hem of your skirt where it hangs, tap a fingertip against the dangling crucifix before he jerks his hand away and looks back up into your eyes. "I was never.. hmm.. brave.. yes. I was never brave enough to act on it. I needed.. I had to.. it took you. And I _don't_ regret it."

His sincerity is as beautiful as it is gut-wrenching and your question is out before you can stop it.

"What if you regret it later.. after I'm gone?"

Confusion and guilt flicker in turn across his face and he leans back away from you, studying your face intently. He looks stricken when he finally answers.

"Do you? I never considered that.. " He reaches up to touch his collar, soothing himself, then continues, "I'm so sorry. I never thought to ask. Are.. do _you_ regret this.. our.. uhm - "

"Fucking you?" He winces and drops his gaze to the floor when you finish his sentence so crudely. You instantly regret saying it, your throat tightening painfully. In fairness, 'So, do you regret damning our souls because you were horny?' isn't exactly a first date question. He shies away from the hand you reach toward his face as though afraid of a slap. When you start to pull it away, he reaches up to take your wrist and settles your palm against his rough cheek, nuzzling his face cautiously to your touch and closing his eyes.

"No."

Your quiet answer must be as surprising to him as it is to you, but you know instantly that you mean it. Guilt and shame you have in spades, but not regret. You stroke his face tenderly as you both fall silent with your thoughts. His hands are in his lap once more as he turns his face up to you, allowing you to trace a fingertip down the line of his nose and across his lips, to follow the contours of his cheekbones and jaw in turn. When you're finished, you go back to thumbing the beads on your rosary and praying silently to Mary. Father Misha's murmur breaks your concentration on the lost cause.

"Still hungry?"

"Yeah, I am."

Mostly you're relieved at the apparent mutual agreement to drop the subject. It means you can breathe again.

**********

Watching Father Misha's adeptness in the kitchen, you realize you don't actually know anything about him. He won't let you help, telling you with a good-natured wink that he'd only trip over you if you tried. So, you content yourself to sit in a chair off to the side and watch as he cuts and measures ingredients.

"Why did join the priesthood?" His smile when you ask is broad and genuine. He never slows in his preparation, but his body comes alive as he answers.

"I wanted.. _want_.. to make the world a better place and becoming a priest seemed like the best option to that end. I want to help people, you know? Make their lives better and more manageable. I want to be someone people can count on in their times of need. I want to help them make the right choices and find their way to Heaven."

Your stomach turns as he falls quiet again to concentrate on mixing together vegetables and meat in the hot skillet. He glances at you, a slight frown crossing his features. He goes on...

"I was raised in a devout household. I know.. hmm.. I know people say that as an insult most of the time, but for me it wasn't bad. It fit with my natural tendencies toward introspection and my need to understand my.. my place in the order of the world. It was the next logical step."

He looks at you and smiles again before he turns his attention back to seasoning the food. He moves between the skillet and a boiling pot of pasta with practiced ease. You're duly impressed. You're relieved to find the grip shame has had on your stomach is loosening with the delicious smell of food filling the air around you.

He asks you to retrieve a bottle of wine from another room before he'll agree to continue his story and when you look surprised, he teases that even God - _especially_ God - believes in good wine pairing. When you return, you cajole him into continuing, even though he tries to convince you his entry to the Church isn't interesting.

"I thought that.. uhm.." He pauses to find the right words, stirring the mixture in the skillet absently and and staring at the boiling water in the pot. "I thought that what I was giving up was worth it. I was young, of course. And I was so certain of my path. I never doubted.. anything. Anything at all. I never thought 'this is forever and what if it's not right for me'. That thought didn't come until a lot later."

You watch him carefully. He doesn't seem troubled, just deep in thought. He looks over at you and for the first time all night, you can't read his face. It makes you uneasy and you shift under his gaze before he looks away. He shakes his head a little and looks back at you with a half smile.

"Does it make parishioners feel better or worse to know their priest shares their moments of doubt?"

Your chest swells once more with affection for him as he searches for the answer in the sauce. You answer a resounding, "Definitely better, Father."

He smiles to himself and nods before he directs you to the plates and glasses and silverware.

"You can call me Misha, if you'd rather. It's.. I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I don't mind either way."

You consider it as you set the table and he brings pot of pasta and the toast. After you've taken your seat, he fills your plates and pours wine for you both. Maybe the weirdest thing about a toast with him is that it doesn't feel weird in the least. He turns the conversation to you as you eat, sticking with painless, laughter inducing topics. You're pleasantly surprised to find that you enjoy his company immensely. You're more and more convinced that he's not very priestlike at all under that stiff linen collar.

After dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, you feel more relaxed than you have in recent memory. It's getting late and there's no way you're staying the night, even if it were offered. He refuses to let you clear the table, waving it off and telling you he'll deal with it later. You linger over the last of your wine as conversation ebbs.

Glasses finally drained, he walks you to the front door, on the opposite side of the rectory from where you came in. Standing in the entryway, you notice a shift in him. He bites his lip, obviously wanting to say something, so you wait. When he licks his lips, you reach out and catch his wrist before he has a chance to wipe them. He quivers in your grip and you can feel his pulse beneath your fingertips. His breathing turns shallow and the familiar pink blush creeps up his cheeks.

"I.. Would.. It- It's.. Is it.."

He blinks then looks at the ceiling and shakes his head. His wrist trembles more noticeably as he clears his throat and looks down, his eyes intense and bright; his words come out in a rush.

" _May-I-kiss-you-again-please_?"

He looks so hopeful and pleased with himself when he finally gets it out even if your heart wasn't pounding, there's no way you could turn him down. Almost before you've finished nodding, he reaches up to stroke your cheek. The soft rush of his breath over your lips just before his touch makes you shiver and bite back a whimper. He mirrors your first kiss in his office, a gentle press of lips that slowly slides into something much less innocent.

You curl your fingers in his shirt to tug him a bit closer as he teases your lip with his tongue. He's sweetly clumsy, nose pressed against yours until you tilt your head a little more. You can feel his courage rising as his kiss gets bolder. He takes his time, exploring and tasting you, allowing you to do the same to him. The taste of wine mixed with the scent of incense is heady and when you move one hand to his hip he whimpers softly.

He slides his fingers into your hair, pulling a little too hard but not at all unpleasantly. You lean into him, kissing harder, sucking at his tongue. It draws a pleased moan and a drag of his teeth over your bottom lip. You feel his body surge forward in his excitement and your teeth collide before he reins himself in. You pull away, laughing, and he blushes more deeply and whispers an apology.

He's standing so close you can feel the heat flow off his body, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You let him slide his thumb across your lips as he licks his own. He smiles shyly, dipping his head to look at you through his lashes before he takes a step back. When he trails his fingertips down your cheek to your neck, watching your reaction, you give his hip a teasing push. He smiles and leans in to steal a last quick kiss.

"I should go, Father. Before.."

He nods agreement and kisses your forehead. You take comfort in his murmur against your skin.

"Go in peace."

********************

"Father Misha asked me to tell you he missed you at Mass this morning. He was quite concerned when I told him you were feeling under the weather. Such a kind young man." You pull the phone away from your mouth and try not to choke on your drink as your mother passes along the message. As your cheeks burn, you clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. You know it isn't funny and that she would _definitely_ not find it amusing.

The realization your mother would actually disown you if she knew what you've done is sobering, pulling you back from the brink of embarrassed laughter into the realm of full-on mortification. You swallow hard and answer a quiet, "Very thoughtful of him."

You can't get off the phone with her fast enough. It's not like you've always had the best relationship with your parents; but you know they love you and want the best for you and because of that, you hate lying, even if by omission. With a final dose of "you really should be on your deathbed to miss Mass, though" guilt, she says goodbye. It's a relief when you can finally set your phone down and you curl up in the middle of your bed.

You've avoided seeing Father Misha since That Night, almost a week ago. You still don't regret your actions, though the niggling voice in the back of your head tells you that you _should_. You wonder if he regrets it yet, but you feel like a coward, too afraid to find out. Maybe, in hindsight, you should have thought more about what would happen after you seduced him. You try to remember what you thought would come next and you draw a blank.

You pick up your phone and look at the time. The last Sunday Mass was at five p.m., it's nearly eight now. Maybe it's time to talk to him. You sigh and drag yourself off the bed to shower and dress.

**********

By the time you get to the church, you know the doors will be locked. When you reach the front door of the rectory, your stomach twists uncomfortably and you feel sick all over again. Anxiety hums through you like electricity and it takes every ounce of courage you can muster to ring the bell. The wait for him to answer is excruciating and more than once you entertain the thought of turning and running. Before you can make yourself move, the door opens. The scent of shower clean wafts out to meet you.

"Ah, hello. I didn't expect.."

When you see he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and loose black shorts instead of his usual priestly attire, it short circuits your thoughts and all you can do is stand and stare. He steps back and crosses his arms over his chest before quickly changing his mind and dropping his hands to his sides, fingers tightening to fists and then relaxing. He's smiling, but it seems guarded. Or maybe that's just your discomfort. He takes another step backward, reaching up to run his fingers through his short hair.

"Would you like to come in? I.. uhm.. please, come in."

You can't stop looking at where his collar should be as you move past him into the house. It's silly, you know, but seeing his bare throat feels somehow illicit. You fight the urge to touch him. That's not what you're here for, you remind yourself. He smiles again and leads the way into the into the living room. You watch the sway of his hips, the way the thin fabric of his shirt clings across his shoulders, the blush you'd almost _swear_ you see rising on the back of his neck.

While he studies the books on a shelf like he's never seen them before, you stand in the doorway. It's probably better this way, keeping your distance since you feel more and more drawn to touch his gracefully shifting muscles or just push his shirt aside to watch his lithe body. God must loathe you, you decide, to put temptation like this in your path again and again. You instantly feel guilty for thinking such a thing, even jokingly. You shove your hands in the pockets of your jeans and try to gather your scattered thoughts.

Father Misha looks at you uncertainly, biting his lower lip. His body is tense and he looks like he wants to say something; he doesn't, though. He looks back at the books, trailing his fingertip down the spine of the weightiest of many Bibles. You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to stop your nervous trembling; your voice sounds weird and strangled even to you. It doesn't help matters at all that he looks up expectantly as you start to speak.

"I came to talk to you because.." You have no idea how to finish the sentence. Because you're sorry? No. Because you need his forgiveness? Maybe. Because you want to keep fucking him? Possibly. Because you couldn't make yourself stay away? Absolutely. You tried.

"Because?" He taps the Bible and moves to take a seat on the couch, giving you his full attention, head tilted like a puppy awaiting a command. The way his t-shirt makes the tightness of his breathing so obvious is completely unfair. He licks his lips, but as he's reaching up to wipe away the spit, he stops himself and bites them together, returning his hand to his thigh.

It's such a small thing, really, that he would remember that; but for some reason, it eases the sick feeling in your stomach and makes your words spill out at last.

"Because I don't know what to do, Father. I.. The thing is.. I want this. You. I want you. I can't stop myself. I've tried so hard to not want.. any of this." When you pause, he opens his mouth to say something then closes it again quickly when you go on. "Every time I convince myself that what I've done is a mistake, all I.. _all_ I can think about.."

His eyes widen when you step from the doorway toward him. The slightly parted lips that accompany his sharp breath are your undoing. It's too hot to breathe as you reach out to touch his throat, to stroke the skin bared by his absent collar.

"..is how _keen_ you were. How much you _wanted_ it. I think about the way your body reacted to my touch, about how hard I made you and the way you touched me. Wanting me. _Needing_ to watch the slide of your cock. Tell me, _Misha_ , how can something that feels.."

He swallows audibly, leaning back against the couch as you lean closer, his eyes never leaving your face.

"..so good.."

His sudden grip on your waist is jarring and when you find yourself straddling his hips with his lips almost touching yours, you finish with a breathy..

"..be wrong?"

He groans, his long fingers tightening on your body. His breath is shallow and uneven and hot on your lips and his voice is a strained whisper.

"I need.. I need to kiss you."

"Then kiss me."

There's no hesitation in the way he lurches forward, lips pressed hard to yours, and no gentleness. He moves easily when you reach up with both hands to cradle his face, tilt his head to hold him steady. When you open to him, he licks desperate whimpers against your lips and tongue, wet and rough and unexpected biting and lost in the moment. His fingers twist in the fabric of your shirt, encouraging the roll of your hips.

He holds fast, tasting you, learning the feel of your kiss all over when you press your thumbs to the underside of his jaw. A bit more pressure and finally he relents, tipping his head back, gasping. You dip your head to suck and nibble at his throat, the bare skin that shouldn't be bare, and he scrabbles frantically at your hips, pulling you down and squirming as you move your attentions up the side of his neck to wriggle the tip of your tongue in the soft spot behind his earlobe.

"Oh, _oh_.." he whispers, and a choked off, "augh," when you nip the shell of his ear. When you whisper, he shivers head to toe.

"It's good, isn't it, Father?"

His answering "yes" is muffled against your neck as he follows your lead, turning his attention there. He reaches with one hand to thumb at your jaw, tilting your head back. The scrape of his stubble is exquisite, leaving you quivering and grinding harder into his lap to feel the press of his cock through your jeans.

You slip your hands under his shirt, push them up his body to feel his muscles move beneath your touch. When you start to tease and pinch at his nipples in turn, he bites down and starts to suck at your neck. It's unexpectedly hard enough to make you jerk away, but he follows, pressing soft kisses and whispering apologies to the worried skin. You pinch again, drag the pads of your thumbs over his hardened nipples until he's arching beneath you, a coiled mass of breathless moaning.

" _Please_. I want.. I.. can we.. can.. not here.. not like.. no.. please, come to my bed."

You've been studying for this all week, reading and re-reading the Song of Songs front to back to memorize as much as you could without knowing if you'd ever have the chance to use your newfound knowledge. He's watching you, eyes wide and more than a little wild when you lean back to meet his gaze.

"My lover speaks.. he says to me, 'Arise my beloved, my beautiful one, and come.'.."

He mouths the words after you, a smile as recognition dawns. It comes as a surprise when he takes your face in his hands, a gentle touch in the swirl of lust, and pulls your forehead against his.

"Who is this that comes forth like the dawn? As beautiful as the moon, as resplendent as the sun? Let me see you.. let me hear your voice.. for your voice is sweet, and you are lovely."

Your chest is tight, his purred words sounding dirtier and hotter than anything has the right to. You try unsuccessfully to bite back a whimper as you wonder how you _ever_ thought you could win at this game. His stare is so close, so intense it makes your stomach twist hot with need. You push yourself off his lap to escape, to breathe, to gather your wits, whispering an eloquent, "Fucksake."

He rises, unsteady, like a colt taking his first steps. You follow easily when he slots his fingers through yours and tugs you along. Standing beside his bed, he goes shy, shifting foot to foot and looking at the floor as though he has no idea, having gotten this far, what comes next. It takes a second of confusion before you remember that he _doesn't_ know.

He watches you curiously as you strip out of your shirt and bra, toe off your shoes. The chill in the air hardens your nipples instantly and he watches that, too, head tilted as he licks his lips. He reaches toward you but drops his hand just short of touching and looks back up at your face, brow knit. You step forward and grab the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up. He takes the hint and helps you, standing bare-chested a trembling as it drops to the floor.

"You can touch me. I _don't_ mind."

When you take his hand and pull it to your breast, his cheeks flush deep pink and he freezes. You leave his fingers pressed to your warm flesh as you lean into him, offer a trail of open-mouthed kisses from the center of his chest to his nipple. When you tease your lips against his nipple, he groans and squeezes the tiniest bit. His fingers slide over your skin, testing the curve and the weight of your breast. When you start to suck at his nipple, his body arches just like before and he rubs his thumb across your nipple in response.

With him distracted, you reach to unbutton his shorts. He tenses at the brush of your fingers, stomach muscles twitching as he whispers a soft, " _ah_ ". You move to suck and nibble at his neglected nipple and his other hand finds the curve of your hip. The thought of a blow job crosses your mind as you push his shorts and underwear down over his cock and bend to shove them the rest of the way down his legs. You decide to save it for another time and press a kiss to his stomach on your way back up.

He pulls his hands away from you to cover himself as you unbutton your jeans, the blush on his cheeks extending down on to his neck and chest. You move quickly to rid yourself of the rest of your clothing when he clears his throat and averts his eyes again.

"Hey, it's okay," you tell him softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. He looks everywhere but at you as his blush deepens to red, his lips moving soundlessly. You press closer, lean up to press your breasts to his chest. He shivers and bites his lips together, finally looking down into your eyes, his face drawn tight with worry. "Kiss me?"

He nods and licks his lips before he presses them to yours. It's tentative again, soft and slow and you tease your tongue against the swell of his lower lip then nip and drag your teeth. His breath hitches before he breathes out a sigh and leans into your kiss. You twist your tongue against his, pushing and teasing and drawing him in, resting your hands to his hips to pull him closer. As he kisses you more deeply, give and take and growls and teeth, he slowly moves his hands out of the way. The press of his leaking cock to your stomach makes him jerk and gasp.

You take your time pulling him onto the bed with you, rewarding him with kisses and nibbles and little pleased sounds when he follows. His body seems to relax once you're under the covers together. You settle on your back, reach up to caress his shoulder and neck, trail your fingers down his chest while he hovers, half-sitting. He looks nervous again, breathing shallow and licking at his lips. He opens his mouth to speak as you slide your hand to his hip, trace your thumb over the prominent vein it finds. He gasps instead and closes his eyes when you accidentally brush against his cock.

You take his hand and push it down your body until his fingers rest against the wetness of your cunt. He breathes deep and shaky and looks at you again, his mouth half-open as he traces his fingertip in circles around your clit. When you whimper and cant your hips up to his touch, he grows bolder, sliding two fingers inside you and wriggling them. The reverent look on his face as he watches the way you react is as much responsible for your inability to breathe as his touch is.

He's clumsy with his fingers as he fucks them in and out of you, twisting his hand to press his fingertips against every contour of your slick walls. You spread your thighs obscenely, wrap your fingers in a loose fist around his cock and stroke slow. His hips jerk and he slides a third finger inside you unceremoniously making your breath catch and your body arch.

"I.. it's.. is that okay?"

You'd laugh if his question weren't so sincere, if he weren't so focused on watching your every reaction. Instead you gasp a ragged breath and moan, "God, yes". When he bends his head to kiss your chest, trailing his lips to your nipple, you close your eyes and grab for his hair. His lips are as gentle as his fingers are not, wrapping around the hardness and sucking. He hums approval when you shiver and in his excitement, he gets too rough. You press your hand over his, guiding him to push his fingers deep and rhythmic and press his palm against your clit. He releases your nipple and raises his head.

"Please look at me."

It's a heated murmur, so close and so curious. You open your eyes slowly to look at him and his eyes widen when you meet his gaze, his breath catching. You've never felt so vulnerable as in this moment while he looks into your eyes with his fingers stroking inside your cunt slow and steady, just like you showed him. You pull your hand away from his cock, stroke his hip once more. You want to look away, but you're as fascinated by him as he is by you. He lifts his chin and bites his lip, changes the angle of his fingers.

Your breath is coming in soft gasps as you slip your fingers under his palm and rub at your clit. When your cunt clenches around his fingers, his nostrils flare and a groan catches in his throat. He whispers appreciation as he pushes more certainly, his hand rocking against your fingers to add to the friction on oversensitive nerves. You don't want to come this way so you stop and push his hand away gently. He frowns as you try to collect yourself.

"Did I do something wrong?"

You pull him close for a reassuring kiss, once more enraptured by the sweetness of his puzzlement.

"No," you finally whisper once you can breathe something resembling properly, "you're doing _everything_ right."

He ducks his head like a praised schoolboy and looks up at you through long eyelashes. You press your palm against his hip, urging him to move between your legs. Worry flits across his face again, drawing his brows together as he moves. Your fingers on his cock, stroking and teasing and holding him steady don't seem to settle his nerves at all.

"I don't.. I've never.. What if I hurt you?"

You tease the head of his cock against your wetness, arching your hips up as he holds himself over you. He whimpers and swallows hard, his hips jerking forward of their own volition. It presses him just barely inside you, makes you growl with need.

"Your body knows what to do. You're not go- It's okay.. just-"

When he thrusts, burying his cock and cutting you off mid-sentence, it takes everything you have to bite back a yelp of surprise. Your cunt clenches around him as he finally rests his weight on you. He's watching you again, a voyeur in his own activities. He bites his lip, breathing in slow and deep as he pulls his hips back to thrust again. His rhythm is stuttered, off, and he's fucking too hard and twisting his hips and it _should_ hurt, but it doesn't and all you can do is moan "fuck" and "yes" and wrap your legs around his hips.

It takes a moment, but his thrusts even out, deep and jarring and still too hard, but good. He kisses your lips softly and pulls back to watch you. You arch up to meet him, his hipbones shoving against yours uncomfortably when you do. He's panting and whimpering wrecked little, "oh, oh, _oh_ "s and feral growls that seem to surprise him mixed with the occasional rhetorical "Okay?"

You roll your hips up, pushing him deeper as you scratch lightly over his shoulder blades. He arches and shivers, stops breathing for a moment as he fucks you into a haze of lust and white hot need. When he draws an unsteady breath, it's caught on a moan of pleasure and he shortens his thrusts. You pull one hand away and push it between your bodies, fingers finding your clit to stroke again. You close your eyes, your body tightening as the feel of his cock filling you and your own fingers pushes you dangerously close to orgasm.

"Let me _see_ you," he echoes his earlier sentiment, a hoarse growl, "let me.. hear your voice.. for your.. your voice is sweet.. and you are lovely."

It's too much, the building heat explodes through you like fireworks leaving you gasping and shuddering as your cunt clenches tight around his cock and you cry out. He moans with you, kissing your throat and pounding into you hard and erratic as everything goes gray in your head and your body tingles cold. His body is sweaty and his cock goes impossibly hard when you dig your nails into his shoulder and pull him down against your body. The heat of his breath on your skin makes you want to crawl away and the ragged sound echoes in your ears.

"I.. oh.. _oh, God_.." he whimpers, thrusting again and then grinding against you as his cock pulses, hot come filling you. "It's.. you're.. _augh_.." he finishes the thought.

You open your eyes to watch his face, feeling the muscles of his stomach twitch and jerk against yours as his body shivers. His head is tilted back, mouth half-open again on uneven gasps. When he finally looks down at you, his eyes are bright with wonder. He closes his mouth, then opens it again, looking for all the world like there's something he wants to say. Or maybe everything.

He strokes your cheek with a shaking hand as he watches you. You just want to close your eyes and rest, but you can't bring yourself to look away. You can feel the thumping of his heart as he rests more weight on you. You pull your hand from between your sweatslick bodies and stroke both hands up and down his back in a slow, feather light drag of fingertips. He groans and closes his eyes for a second as goosebumps raise under your touch.

When he opens his eyes again, it seems he's finally found his words.

"It _is_ good. It's.. I.. if it's wrong it's because the timing is wrong and we.. I.. there are things to be decided, but not now. It feels too good and I.. I want you. I have wanted you since the first time I saw you and I thought you were interested and I knew..

I.. _thought_ I knew that you were trying to seduce me and when I realized I was right I was.. I was confused and angry with myself and with God and I was.. I was.. what did you say? Keen. I was keen because you're so.. everything.. and you're beautiful and interesting and smart and sweet and I.. you.. it's because.."

You laugh and press a finger to his lips, shushing him gently.

"We've got plenty of time to talk but you have to slow down.. and I'd like to breathe."

He nods solemnly and kisses your fingertip, quieting. His eyes are still sparkling and he smiles when you pull your hand away and half roll your body to get him to move off you. He settles to his side and you do the same, sharing a pillow with your bodies close together. He reaches out to stroke his fingers up and down your arm as he starts over, more slowly.

"I am.. uhm.. I'm inexperienced, but I'm still human. Oblivious though I may be sometimes, I noticed that you were.. I thought you were.. I was pretty sure you wanted to.." He flusters himself and reaches up to cover his eyes, laughing nervously. You give him a moment to settle himself, having become accustomed already to his awkwardness with some sentiments. You stroke his chest in silent reassurance until he uncovers his eyes and continues.

"I thought you wanted to have sex with me, but I wasn't sure until.. oh, wow.. until the.. in.." He's blushing furiously and you try to hide a smile.

"Until I was masturbating in the confessional, you mean?"

He chokes on the air he's trying to breathe, turns even redder and nods. His voice is thick when he whispers "Yeah." He clears his throat, that out of the way, and licks his lips.

"I wanted it, too. Even before that, I mean. I mean when I met you I was attracted to you and I.. but.. but when I knew and I couldn't pretend I didn't anymore, I was angry with myself for wanting to give in. It's not right. not for me. I'm supposed to.. I'm _not_ supposed to want that. Not to the point it's all I can think about when I'm supposed to be tending my flock at the Masses you attend."

He looks down and you reach to stroke his cheek, feeling suddenly guilty all over again. You're opening your mouth to apologize when he looks back up to you.

"It isn't all your fault. I would've.. I couldn't do this forever, I think. God has tested me and I failed. That's my fault, not yours."

You want to wrap yourself around him and never let go. Perhaps your biggest source of guilt has been the fact that you led an unknowing sheep to moral slaughter. His willingness to share the blame for what has happened eases it enough that you can put it aside to deal with later.

"It might not have been you, but it would have been someone as special as you are."

When you open your mouth to protest, he presses a fingertip to your lips to stop you.

"No. No, listen to me. You _are_ special. You're smart and you know what you want and you're not afraid of anything. And don't think I've not seen how tender you are with your parents. I notice those things. I notice the way you go out of your way to talk to people who seem withdrawn, too. I know you don't want to come to Mass, though you should of course and I know you want to leave as soon as you get to the church. But you don't. You stay and you care for your parents and your elders and the outcasts and I think you're wonderful for that."

You close your eyes to hide from him and he traces his fingertip lightly over your quivering lip. It's hard for you to take a compliment any time, harder now because of your guilt. You finally nod, swallowing down the tight lump in your chest.

"Even if you weren't beautiful, which you are, I would have.. I would have been drawn to your sweet nature. It's not easy.. I mean.. I've always been curious about these things. No matter how much I.. oh, man. I'm.. it's just that.." You open your eyes again to see him shaking his head and covering his face. He takes a long moment and leaves his hands over his face when he blurts out, "I've always been afraid of being laughed at because.. I.. you don't.."

Hard though you try, you do laugh. He resists when you reach up to pull his hands away from his face. You tug gently again and he moves them. You cup his hot cheek and smile.

"Because you're a man and you're supposed to know those things? And what if your cock is too small? And what if you're not good enough at it? Does that cover it?"

He nods again and turns his face to your hand as you stroke, mumbles another, "Yeah."

"You're a natural and your cock is _perfect_."

He smiles all the way to his eyes and puts his hand over yours. You turn the conversation back to something else he said that needs clarification.

"What decisions are you referring to, Father?"

His smile fades and he holds your hand harder against his cheek. He looks reluctant for the first time in the conversation, but you give him time to gather himself, fully prepared to hear 'we'll discuss it some other time'.

"Ob- Obviously we can't go on like this forever. I'm not.. I know.. I know it's not fair to ask you to be patient with this.. with _me_. But, I'm not ready.. I can't make these sorts of decisions quickly. It's not my nature. It isn't.. I don't want to stop seeing you, though I understand if you want to stop seeing me."

He curls his warm hands around both of yours and pulls them to his chest, his expression fond and unguarded.

"No matter _what_ happens, I will protect you from any fallout. Whether.. that's whether you want to continue this or not. You have my word. You will be safe."

You swallow and nod, your mind racing. Potential fallout never occurred to you, nor did stopping seeing him beyond what your own guilt had tried to persuade you into. You nod again, searching for the right words.

"We can talk about something more pleasant," he tells you gently, squeezing your hands. You nod to that, too, and smile. Before he can move to the next subject, however, you find what you were looking for.

"I don't want to stop seeing you. I.. it just seems like.. I could be wrong, but are these decisions we might need to make together?"

A broad smile lights up his face and he nods, holding your hands to his chest with one hand while he reaches out to smooth your hair with the other tenderly.

"I didn't want to.. hmm.. assume you wanted any part of it. It's a.. It's really.. well, wow, it's a relief that you do." He takes a deep breath and reiterates, "If you choose to stand beside me, I _will_ protect you."

You turn to kiss his hand and smile, resolving to deal with the worries this conversation has sent scurrying around the back of your mind on your own time and not spoil this.

"I believe you." You press another kiss to his hand before you ask teasingly, "So.. are you cooking again because I'm an awesome lay?"

He turns pink again and scoffs and rolls his eyes, then grins. "Sandwiches okay?"

********************

You wanted to tell your mom that you wouldn't be joining her for Mass again today, but after missing last week's you know she would suspect something was wrong. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. Maybe it's your own guilty conscience that leads you back to the church grounds for the first time since you saw Father Misha _last_ Sunday. Maybe a part of you hopes there's absolution to be found.

It was a busy week for you both and you weren't able to steal any time to be together. _Does that make it somehow better? If you've already bought your ticket to hell, does each kiss make it worse? Does Satan keep tally of the times you touch one another, or is it more a 'you're so fucked you don't even know how fucked you are' thing?_ This is how you occupy yourself as you slump in the passenger seat of your mom's car and look out the window. You'll have to ask the good Father, you decide. He'll know.

The drive, as every Sunday, is unpleasant. Your mom insists on picking you up and chattering incessantly at you for all your misdeeds, both perceived and real, while you're in the car and unable to escape. You could tell her you'll get to the church on your own, of course, but that's a good way to send her into a fit of pique you'll be hearing about for days. So, you listen and "I know" and "you're right" where it seems appropriate as you watch the road go by.

You wonder if this is what Purgatory is like; having to listen to someone recount everything you've done wrong since the day you were born while on your way to face a man whose touch you crave, but are never supposed to feel.

"I worry about your soul, honey. I just feel as though you don't take your faith as seriously as you should. You should talk to Father Misha, I'm certain he can help you with whatever is going on."

You feel panicky as you jerk to look at her. You've not been listening for at least five minutes and apparently you missed something important in your inattention. You blink and swallow and scramble for words of justification before you realize that she has no idea that Father Misha is the _last_ person who's likely to be able to help you with matters of faith at the moment.

"Yes, of course. I'll talk to him," you finally mumble and she looks pleased. For the rest of the drive you listen carefully to every word she says, but it's just more haranguing.

**********

It's a relief to settle into the pew until Father Misha makes his appearance. Of course he looks good in his clerics, the simple black shirt and slacks and his starched white collar. On Sundays, though, in bright flowing vestments, he looks positively angelic. The Lent violet chasuble is particularly fetching and you can't take your eyes off him as he enters and ascends to the alter.

"in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

When you look over at your mother as she watches in rapt attention, you can't help but wonder if she's _ever_ had doubts. She's never struck you as the type who doubted much of anything, but neither did Father Misha until he _told_ you he did. Then again, sometimes it's hard to imagine your mom has ever even knowingly sinned.

"Have mercy on us, O Lord."

"For we have sinned against you," you return, along with the rest of the congregation.

"Show us, O Lord, your mercy."

"And grant us your salvation," you finish.

You shift uncomfortably on the pew as Father Misha begins the Mass proper, trying to be attentive without actually looking at him again. Being here at all is a bad idea, but looking at him would be worse. Even listening to his his honey sweet voice without thinking about the way it goes low and cracked when his cock is buried in you is difficult.

"May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life."

"Amen," you say, a bit more heartily than you actually meant to.

"Let us pray." He clears his throat the way you're so familiar with and you look up to see him looking at you. You silently curse your mother for sitting near enough the front that you can see how blue his eyes are, how pink his lips are, the unruly ruffle of his dark hair when he looks back down and continues. You close your eyes and listen as he goes on with his prayer, thinking about keeping your breathing even and wondering why on earth you agreed to be here today.

"Amen," you whisper when he finishes, opening your eyes and shifting in your seat again. Your mom shoots you a dirty look and you make a concerted effort to be still. It's easier to do so when Father Misha moves away and a teenage girl takes his place to read from scripture. You're happy for the breather, though you miss most of what she reads.

As the music rises in a song of praise, you relax a little, your breathing returning to normal finally. Every minute is beginning to feel like a marathon and you feel as though you will deserve a medal if you get through this without making a scene.

"Almighty God cleanse my heart and my lips that I may worthily proclaim your gospel." Father Misha begins as he takes his place at the pulpit once more. He loses you at 'lips' and you watch them move, remembering their soft heat on yours and it makes you squirm. "The Lord be with you."

"And with your spirit." You're suddenly more glad than you've ever been that this is all one big participatory exercise. Following the call and response ritual gives you something to focus on besides the guilt twisting with lust in the pit of your stomach, an internal embodiment of the grand struggle of good and evil. Or something like that.

You roll your eyes at yourself and are only half successful at stopping an accompanying snort. Your mother pinches your leg the way she did when you were a child not paying attention and you look down at your feet the way _you_ did when you were a child and got pinched. When you can look back up again, you focus on the front of the pulpit instead of on Father Misha, curious to know where he's going to pull the reading from.

_"See that you do not despise one of these little ones,_  
 _for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look_  
 _upon the face of my heavenly Father._  
 _What is your opinion?_  
 _If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them goes astray,_  
 _will he not leave the ninety-nine in the hills and go in search of the stray?_  
 _And if he finds it, amen, I say to you, he rejoices more_  
 _over it than over the ninety-nine that did not stray._  
 _In just the same way, it is not the will of_  
 _your heavenly Father that one of these little ones be lost."_

His choice is unexpected and you raise your eyes to his face, searching for any tell to an ulterior meaning or hidden agenda. You see nothing except the peaceful expression he always wears when doing his job and you're satisfied, listening intently to the homily he has built from the passage.

He expounds with quiet intensity on the many things that could cause a faithful person to stray from God's flock. You watch him, entranced by the heart he puts into it, the tone of voice that makes clear - to you at least - that doubt is a normal part of the human experience and that God understands this in us, though of course he doesn't like it. You're struck by how _honest_ he's being, naming his own fears as the homily unfolds, without naming them _as_ his own.

He's so beautiful, so passionate when speaks that it moves you more than any words you've ever heard spoken in the church. You swallow hard as his eyes meet yours briefly and you see the wet shine. A hint of a smile touches his lips as he looks away and concludes, "Dear Lord, help us each and every one that we might not be faithless, but full of faith, trust, and love. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Panic grips you once more as he prepares the Eucharist. You know you can't take communion with the whole "don't eat the bread if you're living in mortal sin" thing. You try to decide whether it's worse to answer to God for doing it or lie to your mom about why you didn't. In the end you decide that God may be more powerful, but your mother is closer.

The Lord's Prayer and the rite of peace make you squirm with discomfort again. Your decision made, you want this over with as quickly as possible. Finally, it's time to line up. You take a deep breath, pleased for the moment that you're close to the front of the line until you remember that he will be placing the consecrated bread on your tongue. More deep breaths follow until it's your turn.

When you stand before Father Misha and bow your head, he clears his throat quietly. "The body of Christ."

"Amen," you answer, looking him in the eyes as you open your mouth and extend your tongue to receive. You feel the fine tremble in his hand as the bread touches your tongue and for both your sake, you move quickly away on wobbly legs. You're shaken as you return to your place, your stomach churning cold. The rest of the Mass is thankfully a blur, which leaves only the hardest part of the day to face.

Your mom always wants to be last out the door so she can monopolize Father Misha's time before she leaves. You've wondered idly if she has a crush on him, but you'd never dare voice such a thing. And anyway, ew. You can't even bring yourself to think about her having a crush on the man you're having sinfully hot sex with.

He smiles when you approach, the smile that lights his face and makes his eyes sparkle as his nose crinkles. He takes your mother's hand in both of his and thanks her for coming to Mass, and again for bringing you. When he turns the smile on you, your legs go weak and your heart pounds so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. He is careful not to touch you, though, which only means you're able to keep from spontaneously combusting.

His smile never dims when your mom approaches the subject of your lack of faith and he nods, listening carefully. He doesn't look at you, directing his words to her instead. "If she'd _like_ to stay and talk to me about it, I'd be more than happy to have her."

You nearly choke at his choice of words, knowing he won't make the connection. You're pretty fucking pleased that your mother seems oblivious, too, and you cough into your hand to cover your quick, shaky breath. When your mom asks if you can find your way home by yourself - as though it's even a question - you send her on her way.

While Father Misha finishes up his duties, you help clear up and put Bibles and hymnals back where they belong then take a seat back in the nave to study the stained glass murals. The wait for _everyone_ to be gone is excruciating, but after what seems like forever, he sits down beside you without a word, clad once more in his black clerics. There's so much you want to say to him that you don't know where to begin, so you look down at your hands where they are folded in your lap.

He reaches over and covers your clasped hands with one of his, squeezing gently. His voice is soft when he asks, "Would you like to go to my office? I have an hour." When you look up, he's smiling again but with his lips bitten together and his cheeks slightly flushed. It makes you smile, too, and you make a mental note to see if his picture is beside "keen" in the dictionary.

**********

Long before you reach his office, you decide that talking is the last thing you want to do today. His forethought in locking the church doors tells you that discussion of your faith isn't exactly on his agenda for the rendezvous, either. He stands before you, his head bowed to look at you as his blush deepens incrementally.

"Do you.. I'd like to kiss you," he says, familiar shyness tinting his voice. His continued awkwardness and asking for permission to kiss you is as sweet as it is unnecessary and you think more guys should think about doing it.

"You don't have to ask, you know," you tease as you settle your hands to his narrow hips and move closer.

He smiles and leans down, his lips so close you feel them move when he asks, "How would you know what I wanted if I didn't ask?"

"Mm.. I think I'd figure it out." But, his words melt your heart a little more and you meet his lips in a soft press, taking your time. He lets you tease, pressing harder and more softly again and again, until he's tired of playing and reaches up to take your face in his hands. He groans with pleasure as he tentatively slips his tongue between your parted lips and touches yours. He kisses like he's sipping nectar, soft and soulful and you pull harder at his hips, pushing yours against him as he kisses you more deeply.

He's hard already, mewling soft against your lips as you press your thigh against his cock. Your fingers tremble while you unbuckle his belt and unbutton his slacks. He's pushing against you, trying to angle you toward the couch, but you have other ideas. You break away from his lips, breath coming in ragged little gasps and whisper, "No."

Confusion clouds his face and he quickly moves to pull his hands away from your face. "No, no," you tell him, "it's okay. Just.. one.. second."

You kiss his throat above his collar as you unzip his slacks and push them down over his hips, nibble at his earlobe as you move his underwear to join them around his thighs. He tilts his head back under your attentions and asks, "What are you doing?"

You drop to your knees and he looks down, still confused. His body quivers and he gasps when you kiss his thighs, trail the tip of your tongue over the ridge of one hipbone then the other, ignoring his cock for the moment. He's breathing a little ragged already, his hips jerking when you press a lingering kiss over the vein that runs so noticeably on his flat belly.

"Is.. are you.." He starts, his words evaporating when you look up at him. He takes a deep breath and swallows, shivering as you blow over the head of his cock. When you snake your tongue out to catch a taste of the precome beading over his slit, his body spasms and he moans from deep in his chest. His responsiveness is the hottest thing you've ever encountered, making it a struggle to go slowly.

You run the tip of your tongue around the ridge of his cockhead and his legs shake so hard you have to grab his hips to steady him. That sends him shivering again as your thumbs dig into the soft spots just inside hard bone. His muscles tense and he whispers a frantic, "Oh.. oh.. _oh, fuck_ ," when you slowly slide your lips around the tip of his cock. When you raise your eyes, he looks as surprised by his language as you are, his free hand over his mouth.

His breathing is quick, shallow and you can feel sweat and goosebumps prickling under your hands as you slide further and further down his cock. He jerks and whimpers and growls, his fingers tightening instinctively on top of your head, curling into your hair. When you let a hum vibrate over his sensitive flesh, you're almost certain he's going to fall.

When you're tired of teasing, you start to bob quickly up and down his cock, alternating hard sucking with just holding him in your mouth. He groans "too much, _too much_ " over and over until you finally pull off, asking between little gasps of your own, "Want me to stop?"

He shakes his head emphatically, holding his breath until you sheath his cock in your mouth once more. It makes you squirm when he stops trying to say anything and resorts to "augh" and "mmm" and "nnngh". You build your pace, press the flat then the tip of your tongue to the underside of his cock and slip it side to side. He's thrusting his hips his grip on your hair tightening and loosening reflexively. When you raise your eyes again, his head is back, his long throat working on shallow gasped breaths and swallows that end with his adam's apple pressed to the top of his tightened collar. The sight is almost enough to make _you_ come.

You move faster, hollowing your cheeks as his steady stream of noises make less and less sense, sliding one into the other until it's nearly sobbed whimpers. You push forward on his thick cock, your lips stretched tight as you try to deep throat him. The close quarters of your throat tightening around the head of his cock spell the end.

He arches forward, jerking your head toward his body as he does. You gag around his cock, push your hands frantically into his hips to try to give yourself space, but he's too lost in the moment to respond, grinding harder and harder against you as he cries out with pleasure. His cock jerks and his legs shake again as hot come chokes you. He's too close and you can't swallow and you feel like you're going to drown when you try.

He finally pulls back just enough to give you half a chance at swallowing what isn't already running down your chin. "Oh, God.. ah.. ah.. it's.. I.." he groans, tailing off into whimpers of pleasure as you swallow as much as you can. His body is trembling under your hands, his hips still jerking as his muscles tense and release. When he draws an unsteady breath and relaxes his hold on your hair, you pull off his cock slowly.

"I think.." he mumbles in a daze, "Oh.. oh, I think I.."

When he looks down at you, petting clumsily at the top of your head, his eyes go wide. You're clearing your throat, trying not to cough as you attempt to breathe. "Oh.." he says again, glassy-eyed and looking like he can't quite make sense of what he sees.

You pull his underwear and slacks back up over his hips for him, and he shudders when you tuck his softening cock away. He licks his lips then bites them together, watching you. After a long moment, he manages to finish his sentence. "I think.. I should sit down."

He settles gracelessly to the floor with you as you move from aching knees to sit flat. He's still staring and his confusion makes you laugh, which only seems to confuse him further. When you reach up to wipe the come off your chin, he blushes deep red.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes, his voice ringing clear with embarrassment as he reaches up to cover his face. You wipe your hand off on your skirt and reach to pull his hands away. He lets you, though reluctantly. When you lean forward to kiss him he shies away, shaking his head emphatically and looking thoroughly grossed out that you'd even try. "I can't.. not with the.. not.. the.. that's.."

He shudders and you retreat from his personal space.

"How can you even.. I mean.. it's.. I'm not.." He trips over his disbelieving words.

"I like it," you tell him, shrugging and laughing. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a squeak comes out. He closes it again and regards you carefully and you can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"What does it taste like?"

"Mostly sweet, a little salty, a little bitter. Do you like fruit?"

"How could you possibly.." his mouth drops open and he laughs a little nervously, "You mean.. it tastes like _fruit_?!"

"No, just sweet."

"I.." He leans toward you like he wants to kiss you, but at the last moment he pulls back.

"It's okay," you tell him, and mean it. He reaches out instead and strokes fingertips over your cheek, down to trace your jaw. You turn your head, press a kiss to the his wrist and ask, "What should we do with the rest of your break?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Misha went to confession and it didn't end well. Angst and guilt and a little kissing.

Father Misha's request that you meet in his office rather than his home fills you with a heavy sense of foreboding. He sounded upset when he called and, as much as you wanted to decline his request, you felt a sense of obligation to him.

He calls a soft "enter" when you knock on the door, so you steel yourself and do so. He's standing on the other side of his desk, tapping his fingers on the rich wooden top restlessly and the first thing you notice is the redness of his eyes. It's clear that he's been crying. You try to catch his eye for reassurance, but he's looking right past you as you close the door and move into the room.

"Please have a seat."

His matter-of-fact tone makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, but you nod and take a seat in the straight-backed chair across the desk from him. He takes his own seat and folds his hands on the desk that stands between you like a shield. He flexes his fingers and stares at them as he bites his lips together. The longer the silence drags on, the drier your throat gets and the more you want to get up and leave before he has a chance to.. well.. whatever he's psyching himself up to do.

"What is it, Father?"

Your voice is tight with the stress of the moment, harsh to your own ears. His head snaps up and he fixes that altogether too blue, altogether too sincere gaze on you. He gives a little nod, slow and gentle. You swallow down the lump of fear in your throat and fight the urge to run and never look back. Instead, you shift on the chair and fold your own hands in your lap as a guard against what he has to say.

"I confessed this morning," he begins, flinching at his own words and dropping his red-rimmed eyes back to his hands. "I wasn't.. I didn't.. I've been putting it off. For.. for obvious reasons, I haven't confessed since you.. since we.."

You draw a deep breath, slowly filling your aching chest with oxygen it doesn't seem to want. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing over his collar, making it look too tight. He breathes deeply, too, his chest expanding tightly behind the black of his shirt as he tilts his head to study his fingers more carefully. He shakes his head, almost to himself and licks his lips.

"I couldn't put it off any longer. It didn't.. didn't feel right to put it off any longer."

He pauses again, his lips moving silently on perhaps a prayer or perhaps the rest of his confession to you, well-rehearsed but now forgotten with you sitting so near. He focuses on rearranging pens and papers on his desk, then reaches up to touch his collar. It's a touch that has brought him comfort in the past, but this time he only flinches again and quickly pulls his hand away. He still doesn't look up.

The silence is the loudest you've ever known, filled with the minute sounds of shuffled paper and scuffing feet, the overly loud pounding of your heart and the sound of you swallowing and trying to breathe evenly. You want to say something to him, to apologize or say something to make everything okay, but you know there is nothing to _be_ said. So, you watch him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, until he's ready to continue. He finally looks up, his eyes wet.

"I didn't give my confessor your name. I only.. I told him that I've.." he clears his throat and shifts as he drops his eyes once more to whisper, "I've sinned with a parishioner." Another pause as he thinks about his words, then he looks quickly back up to meet your eyes and revises the statement with more certainty. "That _I_ have _led_ a parishioner to sin."

The realization that he is trying to carry the burden of your sins hits like a ton of bricks, making breathing impossible as the taste of bile rises in your throat. You try to swallow it down, struggle to pull your thoughts together to make an argument in his defense. There is one, a good one even, and you know it by heart but your body won't cooperate. 

You try to be patient, to let him tell you in his own time. He stares at the desk, strokes his fingertips across the top of it, searching for answers in the polished wood. You can't stand the way the silence stretches on, so you force your body to move as you push yourself out of the chair and round the desk to his side.

When he looks up in surprise and starts to say something, you press a finger to his lips and kneel beside his chair. He studies you, then nods as though you've given a command. You pull your hand away and rest it on his thigh where he covers it with his own sweat-damp palm. He bites his lips together and continues to watch you, his distress and anxiety palpable.

"You didn't lead me into anything, Father." He opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it closed again when you shake your head. " _I_ pursued you. _I_ seduced you. It's not.. you didn't.."

He threads his fingers through yours, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth as he looks at the way your fingers intertwine. The touch seems to give him courage, something to soften the blow of his day and give him room to breathe if only for a moment. It does the same for you. As you struggle to put words to your thoughts, he clears his throat and squeezes your hand, looks back up at you.

"Am I not the one who is supposed to know better? Isn't it my responsibility to.." He stops short, eyes narrowing as he searches for the right word. "It _is_ my responsibility to be above temptation of the flesh. Feeling temptation is natural. But, to give in to it.. to allow myself to.."

He swallows hard and strokes his thumb against your hand, watches that. His voice cracks when he continues, a dry and painful sound, "I failed. I failed myself, I failed God and my station, and more important than any of that.." 

You want to stop the words you somehow know are coming, so you lean forward quickly, closer than you should be, not as close as you need to be. The knowledge that in this moment he's putting you above his faith, above his duty to God sends you reeling, tightens your grip on him as you beg..

"Don't say it. Please don't."

"I failed you."

His words, words you know are meant to absolve you of guilt, to soothe, feel like daggers in your chest. You fight against the urge to sob as you drop your gaze to stare unseeing at your hands together on his leg. Suddenly you want to lie down, exhausted, as the swirl of doubt and guilt and need roll off of him almost tangibly. The wetness of his tears might as well be lava where they fall on your skin. He squeezes your hand more tightly, until it hurts, clinging to you as he whispers over and over, "I'm so sorry."

You swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling caught in a nightmare of stopped time. The never-ending dream where every physical sensation overwhelms you right down to your bones and every emotion threatens to drag you under its swirling current. The bridge of your nose feels tight, burning with the almost successful suppression of tears. As you lean in closer, your lips brush against his while he whispers his apologies.

"Please, Father." When you reach up to touch his cheek, he doesn't pull away. He leans into your touch, closing his eyes as tears roll down his cheeks. You press your forehead to his, whispering soothing nonsense like you would to a child, stroking his face with gentle fingertips. He finally takes another deep breath as you tell him "everything will be okay" and "it's not your fault" again and again. You know that it doesn't matter whether he believes you as long as you can believe yourself.

After a long moment, he falls to silence while you continue your soothing touch and reassuring words. Guilt prickles at the base of your skull when the feel of his hot breath against your lips pulls your mind down the same dark path as always. You chance a kiss, soft and chaste against his cracked lips. His breath catches and his leg tightens under your hand, but he doesn't try to stop you.

You press harder, seeking comfort in his lips, trying to give him comfort the best way you know how. He sighs, a soft rush of warm breath over your lips before he returns your kiss. His body relaxes as he lets you in, lets you trace the familiar contours of his mouth with your tongue and presses tentatively back. He releases his death grip on your hand and reaches up to frame your face, pulling you in for a deeper kiss as he takes the lead. You push away your thoughts and your guilt and the growing sense of dread and lose yourself in the sweetness of his kiss just like it's the first time.

It seems to go on forever, but not nearly long enough. When he pulls reluctantly away and rests his forehead to yours again, you don't open your eyes. His breath is shallow and uneven on your lips and you want nothing more than to stay in this moment without a thought to the world outside his intimate touch. You can feel that he's going to speak before you hear his words, feel them move across your lips in a soft whisper.

"He told me.. he told me I have to stop seeing you. I.. that.. that.."

Dreaded silence again, your stomach twisting somewhere in the vicinity of your throat.

"I don't want to." His sincere tone makes you pull away to look at him. His eyes are redder than before, desperate as he searches your face. "I _can't_."

You swallow down a surge of tangled emotion at the passion in his tone and close your eyes to gather yourself. When you reopen them, he's still looking at you, anxiety still pulling tight at the corners of his eyes. It's an odd sense of relief, your decision made before you have time to think about it.

"Then what do we do now?"

He shakes his head, presses his forehead back to yours and closes his eyes. His words come, soft and sincere and just ahead of another gentle kiss, "I don't know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first meeting at 'your' apartment. Mostly porn.

You’re filled with nervous energy as you await Father Misha’s arrival. As you pace the floor, checking the time on your phone every few moments, you try to calm yourself. Though it’s hard for you to believe now, it feels as though before his confession, neither of you understood the gravity of the situation. Having made the decision together to disregard his superior’s instructions and continue your relationship, you’ve decide it’s better to meet at your apartment to avoid being caught. 

The last time you saw him was the night he made his confession to you and no matter how much he reassures you that nothing has changed, there’s a sick itch in the back of your head telling you that he will have changed his mind. The knock at the door is so quiet you nearly miss it. Your heart leaps into your throat as you stop pacing and strain to hear. When the knocking is repeated, you practically lunge for the door.

Father Misha is wearing the perpetually bemused expression that fits his approach to life so well and running his fingertips absently over his rough lips when you crack the door open. You draw a deep breath as you pull the door open wider, feeling your nerves start to steady at the familiar sight of his disheveled hair and starched linen collar. You feel more at ease than you have in days when he drops his hand away from his mouth and smiles sweetly.

“Come in,” you offer, smiling in return as you make a valiant attempt to keep your voice neutral. “I’m glad you could make it.”

He glances quickly up and down the hallway before he accepts your invitation, then enters without a saying a word. His silence makes your stomach flip nervously on itself and your throat is suddenly dry as you close and lock the door behind him. Even as you’re turning to ask if everything is okay, he reaches to cup your cheek and leans in to kiss you.

A gentle press of lips quickly gives way to the wet slide of his tongue on yours as he raises his other hand to frame your face and hold you steady. Your surprise melts to the comfort of his nearness as the scent of wood polish and incense drift from his clothing, as intoxicating as the kiss he presses deeper until your chest burns with the need to breathe. You slip your arms around his waist, leaning against the door on unsteady legs and pulling him closer.

He follows without hesitation and when he finally pulls fractionally away, his breath is hot and quick on your lips, his stubble grazing your skin as he nuzzles you. The intimacy of his touch leaves you more breathless than his kiss and you try to gather your wits to say something, but all that exists is the warmth of his hands on your face and the occasional brush of his lips against yours.

“I’ve missed you.”

His voice is soft, frayed at the edges. Before you can answer, he begins to press kiss after kiss, sweet and chaste and with an occasional drag of his teeth over your bottom lip. When your fingers trail across his stomach and up his body, he responds with a soft whimper. You feel the familiar thrill when you release his collar and pull it away, your body arching against his as you trace over the roughness of his lips with the tip of your tongue. He strokes your hair, his palms catching and tugging strands as you take your time unbuttoning and untucking his shirt.

“So I see,” you whisper ahead of another hard kiss. He pulls his hands away to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt while you make quick work of the rest of the buttons. It’s a frustrating tangle of hands until he finally work together to get him out of the black frock, letting it fall to the floor. He presses more closely against you, kissing turning into halfhearted nipping and murmurs of pleasure as he slides his hands under the hem of your shirt, his touch electric on your bare skin.

Under the thin t-shirt beneath, his skin is damp with sweat, clinging and dragging against your hands as he presses close, whetting your appetite for the feel of his body. You start to push back against him, unbuttoning his slacks as he takes a step back and then another, pulling you along to keep you close. He follows your lead, his hands moving from their place on your hips to the waistband of your jeans, fingertips sliding beneath until he reaches the button.

“I want.. “

His whisper trails off to a choked groan when you start to nibble at his throat. He lets you push him backward, his hands shaking as he unbuttons and unzips your jeans, murmurs starting and dying on his lips as you graze your teeth over his collarbone, tease a fingertip beneath the waistband of his underwear. You stop him just short of the chair you’re headed for and pull away. Confusion clouds his face for a moment before it clears with the obvious realization there are still too many clothes in the way.

“What do you want, Father?”

Your voice is husky as you pull your hands from his body to start to slide out of your jeans. He licks his lips reflexively, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to kick off his shoes. A familiar faint blush blooms on his cheeks, deepening almost to red as silence stretches on. You know it’s unfair to make him say it, but there’s something about provoking him like this that’s undeniably erotic.

“I want..” he starts again, swallowing hard and reaching for you. “I – “

You step back just out of his reach and with your jeans in a pool around your feet, you slip your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, dragging one side down and canting your hip provocatively. He bites his lip as he watches you bare the strip of skin between shirt and panties and then he closes his eyes and draws a ragged breath, then looks at you again. 

You consider taking pity on him, but before you have the chance, he reaches for you again. He’s quicker than you would have thought and you don’t have time to get away before he’s got you by the waist.

“I want to fuck you.” The intensity of his gaze and the way his fingers tighten on your body belie the soft earnestness of his words. 

“Yes,” you answer in a strangled breath as you let his hands replace yours, his long fingers sliding under the satin softness of your panties so he can push them off your hips and down your thighs. While you finish removing them, he rids himself of his slacks. He hesitates and you move closer, stroking against his hardness through his underwear.

You press kisses to his chest as it rises and falls tightly beneath the damp t-shirt and when your fingers trail over outline of his cockhead, dragging the precome wet fabric against his flesh, he shudders and rewards you with a throaty sound of pleasure. You’re less than careful in dragging his underwear down and off as you suddenly need to feel him inside you as much as you need air. He offers no resistance when you push him gently into the chair.

When you settle into his lap, his hands immediately seek purchase on your hips. You press close against him, hands on his shoulders as you lean in for a kiss. His lips are rough but pliant under yours and there’s no resistance to the slow fuck of your tongue against his, either. With one big hand spanning your hip, he holds himself steady with the other and pulls you down.

You’re soaking wet, but his cock is thick and you feel the familiar uncomfortable stretch that makes you jerk up instinctively. Your breath hitches in your throat, concentrating on kissing becoming too difficult as he pulls you down again more gently then pushes you back up, slowly working his cock deeper until your ass is rested flush to his lap. He breathes shallow against your lips, offers up tiny mewls of pleasure as his body trembles beneath yours.

“Is it always going to be like the first time?”

His murmured question twists at the end to a groan and a spasm of his tight stomach as you wriggle your hips. His fingers are digging into your flesh as he tries to hold you still, his hips jerking the tiniest bit just outside his control. You kiss him again, soft and sweet and searching as you start to rock your hips more firmly, setting a rhythm for him to follow.

“I hope so,” you answer finally, smiling as he clears his throat and gives a little laugh that sounds almost nervous at the prospect. He’s a quick study, already timing short thrusts up to meet the downward push of your body. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard again and again. You barely hear his answering..

“Yeah.. yeah, me, too.”

With your body adjusted to the deep push of his cock, you nibble at his earlobe and relax into his hands so he can set the pace. His inexperience shows in his erratic thrusts, sometimes too hard as he drags you down, sometimes so gentle he barely moves at all. He tilts his head away and answers with breathy growls when your teeth close on the side of his neck, a line of gentle nips that send his hips jerking even more erratically.

“You okay?”

Your whisper is a tease against his ear and the sound that gets choked somewhere between his chest and its vocalization when you start to roll your hips to push him deeper does nothing to answer. His grip on your hips is just this side of painful as you slide your hands to his neck, burying your fingertips in the sweaty curls that fall in a line and leaning in to kiss him. Your body is pressed tight to his as his lips give under yours, the kiss dirty hot and bumped teeth and growled nonsense.

The sure roll of your hips seems to steady him as he pulls you up and drives up into you, sweaty skin slapping and slipping as he pulls you back down to do it over again. Your thighs burn with delicious strain as your cunt clenches tighter around him, any sweetness of making love abandoned in favor of animal instinct fucking that seems to set fire to your spine, twisting heat through the middle of you as suddenly as a lit match. You rut, driving him deeper as you seek the friction of his body against your clit.

“No, no, no, no.. I’m gonna.. ” it’s a rushed, frantic whisper against your lips, his voice edged with panic. His cock stiffens as he closes his eyes and arches up, his hips twisting as you feel the first pulse of hot come, hear a choked, “Oh..”

“It’s okay, you’re all right,” you reassure in a tight whisper of your own, even though you know he won’t hear over his moaned “ah” and “yessss” and the “God” he slips in between. You can't stop the whimpers that form in your throat, or your hot whispered words of answer.

You slide your hand down your body to touch yourself as you pant and whimper against his lips, snagging odd kisses when you think to. His cock jerks as you push yourself to release, your muscles squeezing tight around him as waves of relief flow from your core to the ends of you. The release is sweet and long overdue as you realize how much you’ve missed his nearness. His hands shake on your hips, sliding on your sweaty skin as you shiver and curl to his body.

When you collapse against him, panting and whimpering softly through the gray haze of your thoughts, he releases your hips and wraps his arms around you in a hug so tight it takes away what’s left of your breath. His chest heaves against yours as he turns his face to your neck, holding you so close you can feel his heart thumping against his breastbone, just out of time with yours.

You shift, your gasp matching his as his cock slips from you. He’s still trembling as you let yourself relax into his embrace, surprised that he clings so tightly. With a few moments, your head starts to clear and your breathing starts to settle out to normal and you notice the scrape of his stubble against your skin once more, a pleasant shiver sliding down your spine. 

Instead of letting you go when you shift again to wrap your arms around his shoulders, he waits while you move, then pulls you tight against his body again. You feel safe in the strong circle of his arms, but the stretching silence is starting to unnerve you.

“Father?”

Your stomach tightens uncomfortably when he doesn’t answer right away. He hugs you tighter again, nuzzles against your neck. You give him a moment before you struggle to pull away and look at him.

“Is everything okay?”

His arms relax and fall to your waist, still holding you close even as he gives you room to move again. His eyes are tight, his brow furrowed. The nervous twist in your stomach slides toward blind panic, your mouth going dry again as you notice the wetness shining in the corners of his blue eyes.

“I just..” He starts before he has to look away to collect himself, his arms tightening in reflex. Nausea washes over you, the certainty of what is coming settling like a stone in your stomach. You have to strain to hear when he finally continues, “I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”

The breath you didn’t even know you were holding burns painfully in your chest before it whooshes out, leaving you lightheaded. You don’t mean to laugh, but your relief is so sudden and so acute against what you expected to hear that you can’t help it. His utterly puzzled look only makes it funnier.

“That’s funny?”

When you hear the soft edge of hurt in his voice, it quickly becomes not funny at all. You hug him close and press a kiss of apology to his chin before you pull away to look him in the eyes again, reaching to tenderly tuck a stray bit of hair back where it goes.

“No. I’m sorry. I thought – “

You blush hot, not wanting to explain, as you try not to squirm while he searches your face for a clue to your laughter. His expression is guarded for the first time in a long time and you’re suddenly more than a little ashamed of yourself for doubting him.

“I thought you were.. “ You search for the right words, struggling to give voice to your fears. You decide on the bare truth and it tumbles out in a tangle. “Usually.. It’s just that.. Most guys are only affectionate and.. uh.. emotional.. when they’re breaking up with you. I just.. I just thought you were going to say that you didn’t want..”

You stop yourself before you finish with “me”, swallowing anything further before you can make anyone feel worse. Realization dawns clear on his face and his arms tighten once more around your body. You feel like it’s stupid to want to cry when nothing’s wrong, but that doesn’t stop the burn at the bridge of your nose or the lump in your throat. 

His face softens before you lay your head against his shoulder and whisper another apology into his neck, but silence stretches again as he strokes your back. You close your eyes and breathe in the comforting scent of his sweat and incense, try to focus on the steadiness of his breathing.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want this.” 

It should make you feel better, but all it does is tighten your throat around the lump and make it harder to breathe. His voice is sweet and gentle and he’s hugging you again. You hadn’t realized how much strain you felt or the depth of your own anxiety until you were confronted with it so starkly. He rocks ever so slightly, pressing light kisses to your forehead, “Shhh. It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

You pull yourself back together as quickly as you can, a task made a little easier with his continued reassurances and when you chance looking up again, he’s watching you. He looks like he wants to say something, opening his mouth then snapping it shut again. You’re trying to decide whether to ask him what’s on his mind when he makes the decision for you.

“I’d like to..“ He pauses uncertainly, doubt flickering across his face as he bites his lips together. You’ve never been more happy to answer in the affirmative than you are when he spits out his question at last. 

“Would you mind if I stayed here tonight?”


End file.
